


When Armor is Broken

by remanth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Armor, Coat - Freeform, arms dealers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:58:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1678970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remanth/pseuds/remanth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock loves the Belstaff coat Lestrade gave him as a gift. But what happens when the coat that's become his armor gets ruined?</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Armor is Broken

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Farcrydreamer over on dA, who requested something with Sherlock's coat getting caught on something at an inopportune time. I decided to go pre-John in the timeline, not long after Sherlock and Lestrade start working together. And I love the Papa Lestrade idea so I made Lestrade more fatherly and caring in this.

Sherlock walked along as quietly as he could, looking down and placing each step carefully in order to make as little noise as possible. It wouldn’t do to be found out by the arms dealers he was following. Death would be the kindest thing they’d do to him. An itch in his skin and a tremor in his hands told Sherlock his body was craving the drugs again. He ignored it as well as he could. After all, the thrill of this chase, the high from solving the puzzle Lestrade had reluctantly set before him was enough to push the need for the drugs back. For now. He’d yet to find anything that could compete with the sheer bliss of a calm mind, a mind no longer racing with facts and thoughts and deductions that the drugs gave him. And the fact that it was one in Mycroft’s eye didn’t hurt. While his older brother had backed off considerably since he’d started working with Lestrade about four months ago, Sherlock knew it was only a matter of time until Mycroft started nattering at him again. Or tried to get him into rehab again.

The arms dealer ahead of him stopped suddenly and Sherlock froze, one foot raised to take his next step. A chill breeze swirled around him and Sherlock slowly pulled his coat tighter around himself. It was a little bulky on him though had fit better when Lestrade had first given it to him. The Belstaff had been a gift from the DI for solving a particularly vexing case and rescuing two little boys who had been about to be murdered. Sherlock had fallen in love with the coat immediately and almost never left his dingy little flat without it. He could hear footsteps coming from another direction, quiet and almost furtive. That would be Lestrade then, shadowing the man from the other direction. Sherlock’s lips turned down into a scowl; of course the man would let himself be heard.

“Bernie, that you?” the arms dealer called quietly, one hand slipping inside a pocket that Sherlock knew held a gun. “Bernie?”

Lestrade appeared at the end of the alleyway, gun drawn and held down towards the ground. The arms dealer recognized an officer right away, pulling his gun out and pointing it at Lestrade. Sherlock rushed at him, no longer bothering to keep his footsteps silent. His coat flapped behind him loudly, only stopping when Sherlock crashed into his back. The gun went off, bullet ricocheting off a nearby dumpster and barely missing Lestrade. The arms dealer yelled loudly as he landed badly on one arm, twisting it beneath him. He turned, snapping punches at Sherlock’s face until a few connected. Nose gushing blood, Sherlock reeled back and fought not to lose consciousness. That _hurt_ , a lot more than he’d expected.

“Andy, what’s going on?” shouts came from behind Sherlock, followed by several steps. He stumbled blindly up, one hand trying to staunch the blood from his nose. Lestrade holstered his gun in his shoulder holster, adjusting his jacket so it couldn’t be seen before grabbing Sherlock’s arm. He pulled the other man after him, towards the mouth of the alley. The two of them couldn’t handle more than two guys and it sounded like a lot more were coming. Lestrade kept pulling on Sherlock’s arm, trying to urge him to run faster. They could worry about wounds and possible concussions later.

“Some bloke and a cop jumped me,” Bernie’s voice came clearly from behind them. “Go take care of them.”

“Come on, Sherlock, we gotta go,” Lestrade panted as he led Sherlock down another alley. He didn’t know London quite as perfectly as Sherlock did but he still knew his way around. Hopefully, slipping through back alleys and around corners would be enough to get them to safety. These arms dealers would have no problem killing either him or Sherlock, as Andy’s actions attested.

“Turn.. turn left here,” Sherlock slurred, raising a shaky arm to point towards a darkened opening that could barely be called a doorway. “Leads to... ‘nother alley. Gotta jump fence.”

Lestrade sighed but headed through that opening. He trusted Sherlock, even after such a short acquaintance. The man hadn’t led him wrong yet. About twenty feet past the opening, there was a fence that stretched about a foot above Lestrade’s head. The bars were vertical and there was nowhere that would support a foothold. Luckily, there was a dumpster sitting on the right side of the tiny alley, just high enough for them to climb up onto it and jump over the fence. Lestrade went first, hoisting himself up onto the dumpster and holding a hand out for Sherlock. The younger man scowled at it but didn’t scorn the help, scrambling up on top of the dumpster. He wavered slightly, catching his balance against the wall but Lestrade could see focus coming back into those quicksilver eyes. At least they weren’t dilated or not focusing on anything at all.

“I’ll go first and help you over,” Lestrade whispered, darting a look back at the darkened opening when shouts reverberated down it. Sherlock nodded impatiently, still bracing himself against the wall. His head had finally stopped ringing, though, a small victory if he did say so himself. Added to that, he felt no desire for drugs nor the high from them. This case had been interesting but now was way beyond that. It wasn’t often someone actually managed to knock him silly like this. He grinned ferally back at the shadowed opening, almost wishing the men chasing would catch up so he could try fighting them too. “All right, Sherlock, your turn.”

“Right, I know that,” Sherlock snapped back, a little embarrassed that he hadn’t even noticed Lestrade going over the fence and jumping to the ground on the other side. The DI was tapping a foot impatiently, darting glances back towards the opening. He was clearly anticipating the worst and wanted to get Sherlock out of it. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock heaved himself up on top of the fence, almost falling as a wave of dizziness overtook him. Eager shouts roared from behind him and Sherlock risked a glance back as the sharp crack of a gun echoed around the little alley. The bullet slammed into the brick just to the right of his head, spraying him with sharp chips. “Time to go.”

Sherlock jumped down, ignoring Lestrade’s outstretched hand as this was something he could manage himself. Yet, before his feet even touched the ground Sherlock knew something was wrong. His coat pulled at his arms, lifting them up until they were almost parallel to the ground. He heard the soft sound of cloth ripping and winced; he’d managed to catch the back of his Belstaff on one of the uprights, the inner lining parting underneath his weight. He wiggled back and forth a bit, trying to work his coat loose. He looked behind him as footsteps neared; the arms dealers were almost to the fence now. Sherlock wriggled more desperately, hearing men laughing behind him comparing him to a fish on a hook.

“You have to leave it behind, Sherlock,” Lestrade hissed, trying to help Sherlock out of his coat. “It’s not worth your life.”

“No, it’s _my_ coat and I will not leave it,” Sherlock snapped back, alternately fending off Lestrade’s hands and trying to reach behind him to unhook his coat. Lestrade took a deep breath and made a snap decision. It wasn’t all that hard, really. Sherlock meant a lot more than a coat. Grasping Sherlock’s shoulders, Lestrade pulled sharply. To the sound of ripping fabric, Sherlock dropped the last few inches to the ground and Lestrade pulled him into a stumbling run.

Sherlock didn’t bother to protest as Lestrade led them away, following blindly even though the way Lestrade chose wasn’t the most efficient. He kept replaying the sound of ripping in his head and studying the feel of his coat on his back. It flapped wider now and there was a cold breeze halfway up his back. The tear was quite long, he deduced, and Sherlock felt his heart sinking at that. The coat had spent more time on his back than on the coat hook in his flat. In a way, that coat had become a part of him, his armor against the world. And now it was ripped, ruined. Just like himself, really.

“Well, you have enough to arrest the arms dealer,” Sherlock said mechanically when they stopped to catch their breath. He was itching to get home and really _look_ at the damage to his coat. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it felt? “Surely you’re proficient enough to do that. Good night, Lestrade.”

“Sher!” Lestrade called after Sherlock. But the other man strode away quickly, head down against the wind. Lestrade let him go and ran a hand through his hair. He was going to have one hell of a report to write up after this.

\------------------------------------------

Three days, and four arrests, later, Lestrade stopped by Sherlock’s flat to see how he was doing. There was no chance Sherlock had gone to the hospital and Lestrade wanted to make sure he didn’t actually have a concussion. The younger man admitted him into the flat with a scowl and Lestrade looked around with pity in his eyes. The flat was nearly empty, a mattress with mussed sheets and a threadbare blanket in one corner. A syringe with a clear bottle rested near the bed, clear signs that Sherlock was still using despite Lestrade’s efforts. When Lestrade turned to Sherlock, the other man glared at him in defiance and challenge, knowing the DI had seen the bottle. But Lestrade let it go.

“How are you?” Lestrade asked softly, leaning against the wall as he studied Sherlock. “You doing okay?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Sherlock retorted sullenly, despite the spectacular bruise decorating his nose and eyes. The arms dealer's few punches had hit hard. Sherlock let his gaze slip towards the coat hook where his beloved Belstaff hung. “Coat’s worse off than I am. You shouldn’t have yanked me like that.”

“I’m not sorry for saving your life, Sherlock,” Lestrade replied, shaking his head. “I would do it again. Have you tried repairing your coat? I’m sure a seamstress would have no problems.”

“I have not looked into it,” Sherlock replied stiffly, a mask slipping over his face. Why repair it when it resembled him so much better in its ruined state? “Is that all you came to see me for?”

“No, I’ve got a cold case I want you to look at,” Lestrade held out a file to Sherlock, waiting patiently until the other man took it. “Take your time. It’s baffled anyone who’s looked at it.”

Sherlock scoffed, muttering imprecations about the intelligence of Scotland Yard before heading over to his bed. He sat down hard, flipping quickly through the pages in the file. Lestrade watched him for a moment, amazed as ever watching Sherlock work. He couldn’t believe how fast the other man’s mind moved. But there was no more need for him to be here. Sherlock had shut him out as effectively as if he didn’t exist. Yet, there was one thing Lestrade could do. Quickly, almost furtively, Lestrade grabbed the ripped Belstaff off its hook and let himself out. He wouldn’t let a gift Sherlock obviously prized go to waste.

The next day, when Sherlock returned the file and reeled off the deductions he’d made about the killer and where she might be found, his coat was waiting on the coat rack in Lestrade’s office. Sherlock stopped dead in the middle of his recitation, eyes latched onto the coat. He delivered the rest at a far quicker pace then walked over to the coat rack. Running trembling fingers over the coat, Sherlock slipped it off the rack the eased it onto his shoulders. The seam that had been repaired was barely even visible and the coat felt just the same. Lestrade grinned as Sherlock reverently smoothed the collar and lapels.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said simply then swept out before Lestrade could even reply. The DI chuckled to himself and sat down to work on reports in a much better mood.


End file.
